


How to Fish For a Soul

by LunaDeSangre



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Soulmates, M/M, Oz Magi's Party in the Dress Factory, Snapshots
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-01-16
Updated: 2021-01-16
Packaged: 2021-03-14 12:41:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 590
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28795569
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LunaDeSangre/pseuds/LunaDeSangre
Summary: Ryan doesn't even fucking know which one it was.
Relationships: Miguel Alvarez/Ryan O'Reily
Comments: 6
Kudos: 10





	How to Fish For a Soul

**Author's Note:**

  * For [KH_FF13](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KH_FF13/gifts).



> For the Oz Magi's Party in the Dress Factory 2020, Wish #08, Request 1:  
> Pairing/Character(s): Ryan O'Reily/Miguel Alvarez  
> Keyword/Prompt Phrase: I had to end up in hell to find my other half.  
> Canon/AU/Either: Soulmate AU  
> Special Requests: Please be set in S1  
> Story/Art/Either: Story

On the twelfth day of Ryan's fucking incarceration in fucking Oz, the world _explodes_ in colors.

Ryan's never seen colors before—he never realized of dull everything was. Or maybe more accurately: how _not_ dull everything really is, when you can see properly. In color. Like you should be—perhaps, if you're lucky. If you're not completely unlovable.

He had almost resigned himself to the idea that he must be: if he couldn't find his soulmate with the completely ridiculous number of different women he slept with on any regular day (night, evening, afternoon, morning, whatever), then maybe he simply didn't have one. Because why would he, right? And if he didn't have one, anyway, might as well just have fun—hence his ridiculous amount of sex partners, and all the problems _that_ brought.

But yeah, he's never seen color before, and so he has no idea what he's looking at—what all those _colors_ are. He knows plenty of the _words_ they could be, from books and travel magazines, but those are abstract things: they've never been real before, never _potentially there_ , right in front of him, defining more that variable shades of one or a few precise things. The only two color-words Ryan _thinks_ he'd recognize if he saw them are green and blue: plants and a cloudless sky. Not that he can see either in here.

And neither is that the important point: _why_ he can suddenly see colors, _that_ is what he should focus on. Why _now_ , _here_ , in _this_ fucking place...because there's only one explanation for why Ryan can suddenly fucking _see_ , and it's so fucked-up he'd be laughing, if it wasn't, you know, _him_ it was happening to.

If _at least_ there was a pretty lady around. But _no_ , of _fucking course_ not: all Ryan's done is walk past a group of latinos with his mop and _wham_.

Obviously his soulmate must have been among them—and never even fucking mind that _his soulmate_ is apparently not only a man, but a con too (though, well, that at least probably makes sense, considering how Ryan is and all): _Ryan doesn't even fucking know which one it was_.

Luck of the Irish? More like _curse_ of the fucking Irish. Who fucking ties this shit to _vision_ , anyway? Only people from perpetually-grey countries, that's who. If his ancestors had been more like—

Waitaminute. Like the fucking hispanics. If his ancestors had been more like the fucking hispanics, Ryan'd have seen colors from fucking birth and not been hit with it out of fucking nowhere in fucking prison.

Because he'd have had his soulmate's name on his skin instead. From birth, getting clearer and clear, in phonetics according to whatever script his people used.

Like one of those latinos Ryan's just passed (they're gone now, _dammit_ ) must have. In roman alphabet. Old-times phonetic style. Probably not looking much like his name. (What can it be? There's no way there's a _y_ in there. Rían? Spanish doesn't fucking have accented _i_ , does it? _Raian?_ And is it even O'Reily or the Irish version of it, or is he considered _son of Seamus_...however that can fucking be spelled?)

Like one of those latinos must have _somewhere on their body_.

Jesus fucking Christ. What the fuck is he supposed to do now, peek at every showering latino until he finds one with something that looks like _Raian Mac Simus_ seemingly scrawled on them? That's like _asking_ to get his fucking throat slit.

Curse of the fucking Irish, indeed.


End file.
